It's a beautiful day and I've been droopy and moping for most of it. Why is this? And then I recall that this is the anniversary of my mother's death. Or... is it?

Huh? Damn! I can't remember the date my mother died. I call my big sister, who always remembers these things.

She didn't. 

Sister: It was sometime around now. I remember it was early July.
Me: Yeah, 2001
Sister: No, 2000
Me: Oh, right. I knew that.  And Dad died November 2.
Sister: I thought it was November 3?
Me: The second.
Sister: I can't really remember that one either. Do you want me to look up mom's date? I have the death certificate.
Me: Nah, that's okay.

See this is odd because the other big death date in our lives is engraved permanently in the family's collective memory. December 17 rolls around and we still get sad. That's the date our aunt got hit by a drunk driver--in 1973. I was a kid, for crying out loud. 

My theory is that our parents wasted away for literally years and years, and our mourning lasted for quite some time before they actually quietly shuffled off this mortal coil. My aunt went from living to dead in a matter of seconds. Other theories: We're getting old and can't retain dates. We're bad daughters. I know that's not true of my sister. (I still have some guilt stuff.)

Aren't you glad you stopped by on this lovely summer day? Oy, this is ridiculous. I'm calling an official end to despondency. Maybe I'll force my kids to go outside with me to play with our new squirt fish.